Wounded
by Dravenuk
Summary: Bit of a post Casino Royale/pre Quantum of Solace peek in to 007s mind. Spoilers here if you haven't seen CR or QoS.


"The job's done; the bitch is dead."

My words.

Pretty damn cold, eh? I'd almost shocked myself.

Almost.

You see, this is exactly the reason I don't get close. Why I don't let _them_ get close. Take what pleasure, what solace you can, where you can, and move on. That's me. Keep moving. Ever onwards. Don't look back.

But I made a mistake. I stopped moving. I looked back.

I broke my own golden rule: _Never get close, James. Always keep them at a safe distance. Stay ahead of the game._

I forgot that love is an excuse for untrustworthy idiots who can't or won't think straight. If you let it love will kill you. It isn't some ridiculous fairy tale of happily ever after. The world isn't like that. The world is hard and tough and cruel. And you can't trust anyone.

Especially someone in love.

Especially if they say they are in love with you.

That cursed feeling is utterly self-destructive. It wants to make you feel too much. And if you feel too much, you'll hurt. Then hurt some more. And I'm all done with hurt. I've had my fill, taken more than my fair share these past few months. But my body is healed now, feeling better than ever. And my mind, as sharp as ever, is aching to be put to good use.

M wanted me back so I'm back.

After all, there are still loose ends to be tied up. And she still thinks I'm the right man for the job, trusting that I'm not going to go running off on some fools mission of vengeance. As if I would.

I know my duty.

I know the huge responsibility I've been given with the double 0 licence.

_Queen and country_, I tell myself. _That's all that matters now._

_The job's done; the bitch is dead._

Right after I'd spat those words in to the phone, feeling their iciness burning my lips, M had told me what had really happened.

Vesper had died to save me.

She'd made a deal: my life in exchange for the money. And her.

That morning we'd made love again, clinging together, laughing and loving amidst the twisted bed sheets. Afterwards, as she'd left the hotel to go for the money, she must have known she was going to her death. But she'd gone anyway. And had done so willingly.

Why?

Because she loved me.

Well that's what M believes at any rate. And I have no reason to doubt that conclusion. After all, love does make people do stupid things. It is so damn self-destructive.

But not for me.

Never for me.

Because I don't feel.

_Keep lying to yourself, idiot!_

Oh how I try. But the lie doesn't work anymore. Because despite trying to drown myself in so much blood, vodka and cynicism, I do _feel_ too much.

Time for some hard truths then.

I find no comfort from drink or from women or from work. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find that tiny ounce of solace to help me through the pain of losing her. I think that the only comfort, the only peace I'm going to find will come from answers. And from making her sacrifice count for something. Something more than me.

_Like it or not Bond you're wounded now. And there's only one thing left to do._

Damn the job. Damn M. Fire me. See if I care. But I _am_ going to find them. All of them. I have to. A blunt instrument taking them down one by one until I find the bastard who set her up; the one who pushed her in to betrayal. The one who made her die for me. I'm going to find him, introduce myself to him, and show him just what Vesper's death has unleashed upon the world. It's the only way to heal the wound.

_But first things first…_

"Hello?" the voice at the other end of phone says.

"Mr. White? We need to talk"

"Who is this?" He asks.

The silenced bullet hits its target and the man drops to the gravel.

I rise from my hidden shooting position. The phone is in my left hand, the Heckler & Koch UMP9, its muzzle still smoking from the single shot, gripped firmly in my right.

I make my way towards the villa's steep stone steps.

For a moment I'm distracted.

I glance up.

The world around me seems elegant, peaceful. In the distance the waters of Lake Como shimmer beneath the bright Italian sun.

Everything looks so beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as...

_Focus Bond!_

I look to the driveway, towards the forward crawling form.

Mind back on the job, I begin to saunter effortlessly towards him, then past him. Reaching the bottom of the villa's steps, I climb the first few. And stop. I look back down. The wounded man is at the bottom of the steps now. He starts to haul himself up the sun warmed stone. I watch him in his agony. I am calm. I am professional. This isn't personal.

_Like hell…_

At the second from bottom step, face twisted with pain, the man manages to look up. He sees me. His eyes go wide with recognition.

I resist the severe and rather delicious temptation to plant a bullet in his skull. Instead, I look at him, coolly, dispassionately, and say:

"The name's Bond. James Bond."

*** 


End file.
